Zoe POV

My gaze keeps drifting back to that small wooden door.

There's something about it that bothers me, something I can't quite put my finger on. It's too plain, maybe, or too carefully hidden in the mural. Like someone wanted it to blend in but didn't quite succeed. The unease sits in my stomach like a stone, but I can't articulate why, so I say nothing and turn my attention back to the menu.

The waiter arrives, and we order—James recommending dishes with an ...